The Living Ghost
by Momagan
Summary: An "origin" story of sorts: McGee joined the MCRT almost 10 years ago, but he was already an NCIS agent at the time. Now he is in peril and the team must explore his past career to find out who is after their teammate.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, Readers. This is my first fanfic story. I hope that is not too obvious as you continue to read this, if you make it far enough to realize any or all of my mistakes. I'll try to keep those at a minimum as I am a huge fan of the show and want to try to keep this as true to the nature of the show as possible while also feeding your craving for exploratory work on the individual team members' personal lives.**

**I know this is quite long for a cold-open; but I imagine that if it were in episodic form, the cut to the theme and opening credits would have happened around the time where the Man, as he has been called up to this point, walks into the Master's, (Agent Parker's) room. All the extra details are merely for the sake of creative writing. **

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The Living Ghost

An alarmingly unpleasant buzz from the clunker sitting on a solid cherry nightstand startled the near-lifeless figure dozing after a long night of work, evident by a laptop open, but dead, on the opposite stand and a notepad full of ineligible scribbles fallen onto the floor. A hand descended upon the mechanical disturbance to cease the ringing. A man slowly emerged from the dark-colored sheets on a bed surrounded by masculine decor. He began his ritual of preparation for the day ahead of him. He meandered through his dressing and hygiene until he barely had time to pour his coffee, perfect his tie, and draw on his blazer. Forgetting to snatch his smartphone, he headed out the door. His brisk pace quickly carried him across the parking lot of his condo on this bright and cloudless day. As he approached his red sedan, he noticed a familiar dog trotting by the neighboring jeep. He'd known this particular canine for several years; ever since the man across the hall had moved in, he'd heard this dog bark from time to time, mostly defensively against the residents who passed the window from which he watched their every movement.

"Hey Ringo."

He tried to lure the dog forward, but the brown and white shepherd-mix retreated back to the stairs of the complex, anxious for the man to follow. The man, curious to follow, forgot about his inevitable tardiness at work and started after Ringo up the stairs and back to the hall where his own home and the home of the dog and his master were awaiting their return. The dog, resuming to whimper through his pants, pranced to the familiar door, now open. The man cautiously entered the door. Except for the whining dog, it was quiet. The owner of the pooch seemed to have skipped out without having properly secured the front passage, allowing the dog to roam about.

"Okay, good boy."

The Man, observing the seemingly undisturbed living room with its vast collection of empty beer bottles lying around and the stench of cigarette smoke wafting through the air-conditioned space, closed the door.

"Careless old fool."

He muttered to himself as he latched the door and stood back. This was one too many times. The dog could have been killed while on its dangerous exploration of the neighborhood. He didn't have the neglectful man's phone number, so he consciously noted to come back and confront the lazy fellow about his poor pet ownership.

As he turned to walk away, he heard the dog scratching at the door. He looked through the narrow side window adorned with frosted glass and saw the same dog, only now it had a muzzle covered in some sort of paste. It looked like chocolate.

"Dagh! Gee whiz!"

He promptly opened the door and squatted on his hind quarters to console the poor pooch. He wiped the dog's face. It wasn't chocolate or any kind of spoiled food. His hand was bloody red. He jumped up and ran to the back of the unit where, much like his own residence, the master's bedroom was located. He stopped short at the door. Lying on the floor was a battered and bloody man. It was the master. He was surrounded by clothing, personal items, and an abundance of beer bottles. It appeared a though his collection had extended into every room of the small living area. The master was alive, but just barely. The rescuer flew to the floor, looking over the master's wounds, unsure what to do in a situation like this. He reached for the land-line on the dresser and dialed 9-1-1.

"Hello? There's a guy lying here..he...he's..not dead, I don't think. Ugh..there's...oh, man! There's blood everywhere, but I don't think he's dead..."

He gave the woman on the other end the address and described the unconscious man's condition. She kept him on the phone, but he wasn't paying attention; he looked around the room. It only now became apparent that this had just happened. Perhaps he had even passed the assailant in the parking lot... ...No. It had been quiet. He had not seen anybody that morning. He felt a nudge and jumped. The dog was back. It had disappeared while he had been calling for emergency assistance, but now it only wanted to paw at the person who had been his sole caregiver since his puppyhood. The Man backed away and gave the creature some space. The bedroom was ransacked. All the drawers in the side tables and the dresser were wide open, some even lying upside down on the floor. Pennies, tacks, and playing cards scattered across the carpet, the man knew not to touch anything, but he couldn't help fear that the choking hazards would pose too much temptation for the dog, now lying by it's human companion.

Minutes felt like hours as the Man sat in the room, regretting the decision to let the dog stay with the wounded master; bloody paw-prints now stained the worn-out carpet. Sirens became clearly audible. Help was on the way.

After all that waiting, the room was soon invaded by responders. First came the ambulance of medical technicians. Then came the police. Eventually, a mass of black sedans and SUV's crammed into the complex parking lot. A group of conspicuous investigators stood outside the door in the hallway. The Man assumed they were F.B.I. He stood with an officer, watching them while giving his report of the entire morning. His statement was filled with unnecessary details, fearing he would implicate himself if he offered any less. The group of two men and a woman walked up to him and relieved the officer of his "post". The leader strode closer to the Man.

He was dressed in a burnt-orange polo shirt under a beige blazer and black trousers. His hair was silver and gray and cut short on the sides. He looked stern, but he appeared like a person with reason. The other two behind him were also dressed professionally, but they both wore dark windbreakers. The woman wore her dark-brown hair in a bun that stuck out of the back of her cap that had the letters N-C-I-S on it. The second man had short brown hair and a camera strapped around his neck. He was whispering to the lady with a grin on his face. It was almost too playful a conversation for the atmosphere, the Man thought; it never crossed his mind that this was a recurring event for the three people. This was their job. They had even seen worse than this, things done to people that were beyond the Man's imagination, even at his worst.

The oldest investigator looked him up and down. He nodded toward the door, " You know the victim?"

The Man looked through the door to the crime scene. That's what it was now. It no longer housed the master of the sweet, neglected dog; it was a place of study for authorities. It was their domain now. He pulled his attention away from the doorway and turned his head, looking for the policeman he had spoken to only moments before.

"I already gave the police my statement. The guy wasn't dead. The door was open. I followed his..."

Where was the dog? That dog had saved his master's life. He should be taken care of and given some food.

"Did they take the dog?" He was more concerned about the dirty mutt than he was about looking suspicious as his gaze passed the investigators in front of him.

"Hey, he asked you a question!" The second man investigator stopped speaking with his female co-worker and spoke up to the oblivious Man.

"Yeah, he's my neighbor. Parks? I don't know his full name. He drinks and eats and does whatever...I don't pay much attention unless Ringo starts yipping up a storm."

"Ringo?" The woman asked, a look of familiarity lighting up her face, "A famous rockstar, yes?"

The second man looked at her with pride, "I have taught you well."

The oldest, now frustrated, looked as though he was about to assault the younger man who started rambling about the greatness of the massively popular English rock band.

"DiNozzo! Get with McGee!"

"Boss?"

"Call him! Tell him I'm gonna fire his ass if he doesn't make his way over here within ten minutes!"

"Uh, McGeek lives in Silver Springs; that's over a half-hour drive..."

"Now!"

The younger man left the group in a hurry. The woman looked entertained by this interaction, but the older man anything but amused as he turned his attention to the Man once more, "You're going to have to come with us to the Navy Yard."

"What? What do you mean?" The man was thoroughly confused.

"This is now an NCIS investigation. Your neighbor, Mr. Parker, is an NCIS special agent."

The Man had no idea what was in store for him if he left with these people, he hadn't even heard of them before, but something told him that his best chance of getting through this did not involve an argument with this formidable man. Being honest with himself, the investigator scared him. He was clean-cut, but gruff; a no-nonsense kind of guy.

That was the impression that Agent Gibbs gave most people. He was kind and understanding but also stern and intolerant of people's mindless chatter. This was the Man's first encounter with the senior agent. It was to be the first of many. This ordeal was long from over.

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**Thank you for checking out the first of about a dozen chapters in my story. We'll see how far this goes! (I have the general idea, but the overall length depends on how many conversations I extend and how many characters I choose to write in first person.)**

**Please review and tell me what you think! I'm open to any criticism or suggestion!  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**I realize how much this chapter focuses on "Tiva", but I couldn't help it. They are really fun to write for and it helps give the first bullpen scene a little comedic touch as most episodes have that to open for great shows. I tried to keep the witty banter going with that classic Gibbsian intro. Hope I accomplished what I set out to do.  
**

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**Ding!**

The elevator chime greeted Ziva as she entered the bullpen. The NCIS headquarters at the Navy Yard in Washington D.C. felt more like home to her than her American apartment ever would. The skylight welcomed the sun, peeking in through the top floor ceiling and tinting the walls of the office building various shades of orange. She walked past the empty desk of her office-mate, her co-worker...her best friend, who seemed to be nowhere in sight. She looked on his desk. There was a note initialed "E.J." and a phone number.

"_I see he is still keeping in touch with_..._her_._" _

Ziva liked Agent Barrett; but, like many women, she had caused Tony much grief throughout their short, but involved, relationship. Tony was a good man. He was sweet and gentle, but even he had his faults. He was sarcastic and childish and prone to laziness if given half the chance to elaborate on the intricacies of cinematic history or television or anything that held his short attention span, (another flaw). Despite his human shortcomings, Ziva could not help but be drawn to her fellow agent. He was an intuitive detective and a highly-regarded member of the Major Case Response Team. He had even held seniority over operations during the absence of their team leader, Agent Gibbs. Above all, he was more alive, a better person, than any of her previous lovers had been. Yes; she loved Tony. He was her man, regardless of what she let anyone believe. She could not show her affections for him, however; it was a sign of weakness, she knew, to fall so easily for someone simply because you must spend time with them so often and for so long each day. Besides, there were rules. And it would never last. They were polar opposites, and Ziva would not allow herself to change. She could not lose who she was to the person she knew she would become if she was to open up and embrace a romance with the one person who truly loved her like no other being in this world. She knew he loved her too. That is why it was so hard; because it was just too easy. He was right there, everyday, and only three spoken words away from wrapping her in his arms and expressing his love to her from the depths of his soul.

Ziva's thoughts had drifted so far from those of the last thirty minutes when she had been admiring the beauty of the fresh spring day that she nearly jumped when Tony walked right up to her.

"Zeee-vaahh!" He spoke with charisma as he drew out the pronunciation of her name, another annoying, albeit charming, quirk of his.

"Tony! I did not hear the elevator. Trying to be Gibbs again, I see."

"What you doin', super spy?" Tony became suspicious the moment he laid eyes on her, walking up from behind and seeing her standing over his desk.

"Not a thing. Just wondering why I am first, and not McGee; he beat us here every day last week."

"I wouldn't worry too much about the probie, Probie. It's Monday. Nobody likes Mondays. And besides, I wouldn't want to come to work either, seeing that it's March eighteenth."

Ziva was lost. This happened frequently, but not quite as often as it used to, but her American co-workers still baffled her from time to time with their instances of alienating banter.

"March eighteenth? I do not understand."

"You know, the day after St. Patty's!"

"St. Patrick's Day?"

"Yeah." Tony looked at his partner incredulously. It was hard not to drag things out when it took Ziva so long to catch on.

"Don't you pay attention to national holidays, Ziva? C'mon, you're an American citizen now!"

"I thought," Ziva began as she used air quotations, "'St. Patty's' was an Irish holiday...why would Americans celebrate?"

"Everyone likes a good party." Tony had that glimmer in his eye...or a dirty thought on his mind, it was hard to differentiate between the two.

"You think McGee was out drinking last night?"

"Well, he IS Irish." Tony smirked, he had never seen his junior agent inebriated before. In fact, he wasn't even sure if it had ever happened.

"McGee would not do that on the last day of the weekend."

"Oh Ziva, you've obviously never heard of peer pressure."

A loud voice broke the chatter, "I'll give you pressure, DiNozzo. On the back of your head!"

"Coffee machine not working, Boss?" Tony could hear the agitation in the voice of the lead agent who was a man better not confronted without his morning cup of liquid caffeine and what little sustenance he depended on to get him through the day.

"I'll get the van." Ziva reached for her backpack.

"No, not yet." Gibbs placed a file on his desk, grabbed his cell that he had left in a locked drawer, and walked past the cubicles of clutter and up to the stairs that led to the Director's office.

"Where you going?" Tony inquired as Ziva grabbed her coat and headed for the elevator.

"Hopefully Vance will keep Gibbs long enough so that I can retrieve McGee before Gibbs notices how late he is."

"Gibbs already knows." Tony spoke words of truth. Gibbs knew everything. He must have had a one-on-one line with the other "man upstairs" because his expansive knowledge felt nearly omnipotent.

Conversations with Tony were always hard to time. He could talk for minutes and it could feel like hours, depending on the subject, or he could simply whisk you away with his smooth facade and keep you engaged in a limitless spell.

Before long, it seemed, Gibbs was back from the spontaneous meeting and passed both agents as he stepped into the elevator.

"I'm not waiting on you two."

Ziva and Tony rushed back to their desks to grab their gear. They were too late to catch the door, as their boss had let them slide closed, so they flew to the stairs, side by side. The two glided down the levels in synch like a pair of racing stallions. They were perfect together. It was a partnership that they cherished, but a relationship that they feared.

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**Thank you for holding on and being patient with me. I promise McGee with make his entrance during the upcoming crime scene sequence. Please feel free to review and send any critiques you have. I am still learning and getting situated in this world.**


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